


Live Wire

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Boys Kissing, Confessions, Developing Relationship, Feelings, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Abilities, Trust, hidden identities, meet cute with thievery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 00:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: After Red’s first break-in, Shiro starts leaving antiques he won't miss around the penthouse, easy targets for his hooded thief.  But when Red, whose name he learns is Keith, shows up bleeding and near death, Shiro realizes the wounded hero isn't the only one with secrets to protect.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 153





	Live Wire

**Author's Note:**

> This was my piece for my piece for herosheithzine— A dystopian future AU inspired by X-Men/Dark Angel.
> 
> So excited to finally be able to share this!

“If you’re going to rob me, you probably don’t want that one.”

The intruder pauses, gloved fingers hovering midair near the antique vase. It’s valuable, as is everything in Shiro’s collection, but it’s not the most valuable. 

“If I were robbing me, I’d go for the Imari Vase.”

He cocks his head to the side, hesitating. 

“Black one to your left with the rabbits and the full moon. Trust me, it’s worth double the one you’re about to take.”

There’s another moment of hesitation followed by the blare of the police sirens ten stories below. 

“You’re fucking crazy,” he says, his voice low and sweet.

“They’ll be here in less than two minutes,” Shiro warns.

He doesn’t hesitate now, grabbing the vase and cradling it to his chest as he walks backwards through the open terrace door and up onto the patio rail. 

“My name is Shiro,” he yells, seconds before he’s falling backwards off the guardrail and disappearing into the night.

By the time Shiro follows, flesh and metal fingers wrapped around the railing as he leans over for any sight of where the mystery person disappeared to, they’re nowhere to be found—the only proof of their intrusion: the empty space on Shiro’s mantle where his favorite vase used to be.

* * *

“That vase was worth five grand,” a low but unmistakably familiar voice says.

Shiro manages to avoid spilling his tea, but just barely. He has no idea how the intruder got in this time.

“Yes, it was,” Shiro confirms.

The stranger scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. In the light of day it's easier to notice the wear and tear in his dark suit, easier still to notice what he is—Blade of Marmora—the underground Galra resistance network. Shiro knows all about them, everyone does. He just never thought he’d meet one face to face.

“Why the hell did you tell me which vase was worth the most?”

Shiro shrugs. “I’ve got a lot of vases. If you managed to find a way up to the penthouse and inside without crossing security, you went to a lot of trouble. You must’ve really needed it.”

“I jumped from the bank. It was easy.”

Shiro does his best not to let his surprise show. The bank is directly across from his apartment, but a good thirty feet away. The rooftop deck is also two stories lower than Shiro’s place. Even for a Galra with enhanced abilities, that's impressive.

“Look I don’t need charity,” he says, slamming down a stack of money in front of Shiro. “This was too much.”

Shiro’s not sure what to make of a thief with a conscience. He’s not sure what to make of a lot of things right now.

“And I don’t need the money.” Shiro pushes it back across the table. “Besides, I don’t think thievery is technically considered charity.”

“I wasn’t _stealing_ , exactly. I was liberating funds from those who have too much to those who have too little.”

“Altruistic,” Shiro says, somehow surprised. “I approve.”

He hadn’t let himself think too hard about the reasons for the theft, sure he’d never see his mystery thief again. Now that he has, his mind is running wild with questions he knows he won’t get answers to. The Blades are as secretive as they are effective and despite the government and news agencies desperate for info on how they keep evading capture, no one knows. 

“You’re strange.” His tone is hard to read and with his face hidden behind a mask it’s impossible to try and guess his feelings. 

“Thank you,” Shiro says, lifting his tea. “You can keep the money. Or, well...you don’t like charity. I’ll just leave it here if stealing it will make you feel better.”

“That’s just it...you wanna give me five grand and you don’t want anything in return?” he asks skeptically.

“A name,” Shiro says, before he can think better of it.

“I don’t give people my name.”

“Right, of course. That was—”

“The other Blades just call me number four,” he interrupts. “But you can call me Red.”

The offering opens up another slew of questions Shiro knows he won’t ever get answers to, but for now he has a name. It might not be his real name but it was given freely and that means something to Shiro.

“Red,” Shiro repeats, testing it out. 

If Shiro isn’t mistaken he’d swear behind the mask Red smiles.

* * *

The clock on the wall strikes midnight as Shiro—once again unable to sleep—paces his penthouse. He’s alert enough to hear the approaching footsteps even if he has no idea how

“You know if you’re going to just keep showing up in my house, you could use the front door. I do have one.”

“Doors are boring,” Red says, leaning against Shiro’s wall with his arms crossed like he belongs there. 

“I suppose your outfit might attract attention from the nice little old lady who lives downstairs. Between you and me she’s sweet but a real nosybody,” Shiro says.

“She watches a lot of porn,” Red deadpans. “I can see right into her apartment window from the bank tower.”

“She does not,” Shiro splutters.

“I swear,” Red says, dropping down onto Shiro’s kitchen island and crossing his legs. Shiro’s not figured out yet why Red hates chairs so much. He hasn’t figured out a lot.

“Wow, well, uh—good for her.”

Red hums noncommittally, grabbing an apple out of the fruit bowl. He rolls up the bottom of his mask just enough to take a bite, showing off pearly white teeth and flesh the same tone as Shiro’s. When he takes a bite, his teeth are sharper than Shiro’s, piquing his curiosity further. 

Shiro shoves down the urge to ask questions about why Red’s back so soon. He knows his mystery companion hates questions about as much as Shiro does.

“I acquired something at auction recently that you might like,” Shiro says instead, pulling open the kitchen drawer and removing an innocuous black box. He hands it over, immensely pleased with himself. “It’s for you.”

“What is it?” Red asks, pulling off the lid.

“It’s an antique astronomical pocket watch,” Shiro says, leaning over the counter to pop it open. Inside, the intricate gears spin. “I paid a pretty penny for it, but it was worth it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yeah,” Red echoes. “Beautiful.”

“It reminded me of you,” Shiro says before he can think better of it.

“Oh.”

Shiro clears his throat, suddenly aware his head is practically in Red’s lap. He yanks it back, smoothing his hands down over his pants. “I just saw it and thought of you. But you, um...you can sell it. It’s okay, I won’t get my feelings hurt or anything.”

“Thank you,” Red murmurs, snapping the watch closed and slipping it inside his pocket as he rises. “I have to go.”

“Oh, okay,” Shiro says, used to Red’s unexpected visits by now, sometimes lasting hours and other times only a few minutes. The only continuity has been that ever since that first night months ago, he always returns. 

Shiro’s stopped setting his alarm and makes sure to always leave something valuable near the window.

It’s been months and Shiro still has no clue what Red does with the money from the stuff he pawns, has no idea what he looks like—he doesn’t even know his name. The only thing Shiro knows is that he doesn’t want the visits to ever end.

As Shiro watches Red depart—leaping off the side of his balcony as if it’s nothing—he knows with certainty he will choke down every question he has if it keeps his visitor coming back.

* * *

When Red doesn’t show up the following week, Shiro tries not to read into it, though admittedly his gaze often drifts to his panoramic windows and the spires of the bank across the street. 

Shiro assumes he will come back eventually.

He doesn’t. 

There’s no sign of him the next week, or the one after.

Shiro squashes down his disappointment and concern. He doesn’t actually know Red, he reminds himself, and Red doesn’t owe Shiro anything. It was foolish of Shiro to believe a friendship that began with theft could be something more. 

It stings to imagine that he was merely a means to end, but Shiro can’t find it in his heart to begrudge him. The world is dark and ugly sometimes—especially to those with special abilities like the Galra. Red was simply doing what he needed to do to survive—and to help others like him survive. He’s a hero, even if he’d never agree with Shiro’s observations. If Shiro is a casualty of that, he can accept it so long as it means Red survives one more day.

It occurs to Shiro one night, nearly a month later, that while Red took many irreplaceable antiquities, the thing he truly stole was a piece of Shiro’s heart.

* * *

Shiro startles, rolling over in bed and squinting at the massive floor to ceiling windows in his bedroom. It’s still dark outside, but there’s enough moonlight for Shiro to see the rain pelting down against the window in a thunderous torrent. 

Eyes drooping and limbs heavy, Shiro begins to drift back to sleep when a faint banging sound hits his ears. 

With a yawn Shiro sits up and throws back the covers, shifting sideways until his legs tip over the edge of the bed. Bleary eyed, he squints at the bedside clock and sighs—1:13 am. All Shiro wants is to sleep, but he knows he won’t unless he checks the balcony. It’s probably just the wind blowing one of Shiro’s patio chairs against the house, but he won’t sleep unless he checks.

Beneath his bare feet the floor is cold as ice, but Shiro’s too sleep-addled to search for his slippers and instead settles for yanking the top blanket off his bed and draping it around his shoulders as he shuffles from the room, jabbing a finger at the thermostat in the hallway to turn the heater on as he goes.

Standing in the middle of his living room he pauses, straining his ears for any sounds besides the rain beating against the windows. There’s none. He’s this far already though so he walks the rest of the way to the sliding glass doors of his balcony, flipping on the outside light and squinting. The rain is coming down so hard it makes it hard to see clearly as his eyes roam over the balcony. Sure enough, his small table and chairs in the corner are on their sides and Shiro flicks off the light, reading to get back to his warm bed.

He’s halfway across the living room when he hears the banging again. Except, it’s not banging— _it’s knocking._ Someone is knocking on his front door.

Too surprised to think twice about the who or the why, Shiro moves quickly, flinging the door open. Nothing can prepare him for what he sees on the other side.

“Shiro.”

It takes Shiro’s sleep-addled brain a few seconds to make sense of what he’s seeing—Red.

Red is back and standing on Shiro’s doorstep. 

“How...what—” Shiro stops, not even sure what he’s trying to ask.

“Powers. Blacked out the camera feeds,” Red gasps, leaning against the door frame. “Couldn’t get to the balcony.”

Worry begins to take hold of Shiro. This is no friendly visit. Thieves don’t use the front door. It’s only then that Shiro takes in his hunched posture and the arm clutched to his side. Hurt. He’s hurt—blood dripping from his side and spilling over the fingers he has pressed into his wound. He’s also soaking wet, shivers wracking his body. Even without seeing his face, there’s a vulnerability in the way Red trembles that has Shiro’s heart in his throat.

“Shit. Red...you—”

“Keith,” he stutters. “My name is Keith. Someone should know.”

It’s then that Shiro knows how very wrong something is. He’s longed to know Keith’s true name, but not like this.

_Not like this._

“You’re freezing. Please come inside,” Shiro says, stepping back.

Keith nods, stumbling into Shiro’s apartment. The second he’s inside, Shiro shrugs off his blanket, draping it around Keith’s shoulders. With the thick suit still on it’s impossible to tell just how cold he is but if the shivering is any indication, it must be severe.

“What happened?”

No answer. Instead Keith tightens the blanket around his shoulders as he slumps back against the wall.

“Shit, this is bad,” Shiro gasps. “Let me call you a doctor.”

“No,” Keith exclaims, panic evident in his voice.

“I know doctors are expensive but I have a private one on call. Don’t worry about the cost. I just need to find my phone and he can be here in less than ten minutes. He can be discreet too.”

“Shiro—” 

“No, let me call. He’s the best, fixed me up after the accident and even used his connections to get me this prosthetic,” Shiro says, flexing his metal fingers as he thinks back on the trauma and pain after the explosion at the dig site. Refusing to fall back into dark memories, Shiro tries to clear his mind. “He’s the best in the city. He can heal you up no problem. You don’t even have to tell either one of us what happened. I won’t ask if you don’t want me to just...just let me help, please.”

“You can’t,” Keith whispers, taking one shaky step forward before collapsing. 

“Fuck, Keith. Please, let me call. Let me save you.”

A sob wracks Keith’s body as he throws the blanket before moving his hand up to his mask. Things seem to fade into slow motion as Keith’s fingers slip beneath his chin to peel the skin tight leather up to expose a familiar mouth. Except he doesn’t stop there, he keeps on tugging it up to reveal the slope of a thin nose, the most beautiful eyes Shiro’s ever seen, and a head of wild dark hair.

Keith is stunning, and if Shiro wasn’t petrified that Keith’s dying, he would appreciate it more. 

“What are you doing?” Shiro asks.

“It’s too late,” Keith whispers, pulling his hand away from his side with a wince. At the wound site blood gushes out, a nasty gash across Keith’s side visible through the rip in his suit. It’s not too deep by the looks of it, but it's jagged, likely caused by a serrated knife or blade.

“Too late for what? No, it’s not too late. I have money, I can fix this.” Shiro tries, barely resisting the urge to reach out for Keith. “Please.”

“Yes, help me,” Keith says, his breathing becoming more labored. “You have to make my body disappear.”

“Your _what_?” Shiro croaks.

“My body,” Keith repeats, lunging forward to grab a fistful of Shiro’s t-shirt with his blood-soaked hand. “Don’t let them get my body. You have resources. You have...you have to make me disappear. I never existed. I can’t have existed.”

Panic wells up in Shiro, the fingers of his prosthetic tingling. “Keith.”

“You said you’d help me,” Keith chokes out, his grip on Shiro’s shirt near painful and his eyes wild. “The blade was luxite. It’s...poison,” he gets out, each word appearing to cost him something. “M’only half-Galra or I’d have been dead already. Luxite. Bad. So bad. Hurts.”

“I don’t understand,” Shiro whispers, patting his hands on Keith’s arms. The suit is soaking wet and Keith’s arms are trembling.

“Set up. Was double crossed,” Keith swallows, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he slumps forward into Shiro’s arms.

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro gasps.

A shudder wracks Keith’s body as he tips his face up to Shiro’s. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Keith, let me help. Please” Shiro begs, smoothing the hair back off his forehead. It’s as soft as it looks, and a chill runs through Shiro’s body.

“You can’t,” Keith says, voice unnaturally small. Everything about Keith has always been larger than life. For him to seem so small has Shiro’s world feeling unsteady. “It’s okay...it’s okay, Shiro. I’m not alone. I was alone for so long, then I found you.”

It sounds like a goodbye.

Shiro won’t let it be.

“Keith, _I can save you,_ ,” Shiro says, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He swore he’d never do this, not for anyone, but Keith isn’t just anyone.

“It’s too late,” Keith chokes out, his teeth chattering now. “Poison spread. Too late.”

Shiro closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

Keith is special, and Shiro can’t let him die—he _won’t_ let him—no matter what happens to him after.

Scooping Keith up into his arms, Shiro easily carries him down the hallway to his own bedroom. If Keith wonders what is happening he says nothing, his eyes now shut and his forehead resting against Shiro’s chest. 

“Just hang on,” Shiro murmurs, kicking his door open and depositing Keith in the middle of his bed.

“I’m ruining your bed,” Keith gets out, eyes still squeezed shut as he breathes through clenched teeth. The rise and fall of his chest has slowed, his face pinched up in pain. Shiro is running out of time.

“I don’t care about the bed,” Shiro says, crawling onto the bed until his knees are pressed up against Keith’s side.

Keith turns his head towards Shiro, eyes fluttering open halfway. “Goodbye, Shiro.”

The finality of the words send a chill down Shiro’s spine, any lingering fear about the repercussions of what he’s about to do dissipating. This is the right thing to do.

Shiro forces himself to relax as he places both hands over Keith’s wounds, ignoring the questioning look Keith sends his way. There’s no time to explain. He closes his eyes, drawing his attention to the thrum of Quintessence that runs through his veins. Shiro’s spent years doing everything he could to ignore the energy that thrums through his veins—yoga, meditation, therapy—now he latches onto that thread of power—fingers tingling as he summons the energy. 

Once his mind has grabbed hold of the thread, he focuses on redirecting it, sending every ounce of Quintessence in his body straight into Keith’s.

Shiro is a live wire; he just hopes he doesn’t blow. 

“What the—” Keith starts, whatever else he says fading into the background and the blood rushing in Shiro’s ears as the Quintessence rages through his body. 

It’s too much power—too much life force— and already it rages out of his fingertips like kindling set ablaze. It takes every bit of self-control Shiro possesses to maintain hold of the thread so the energy transfer doesn’t rip his body in two. Shiro is nothing but a vessel as he leans forward, pressing his weight into Keith’s abdomen and forcing his own life force into Keith’s. 

He won’t let him die. He won’t. 

“Shiro,” Keith yells, strong fingers digging into his forearm.

Shiro wants to respond but he’s too far gone now, and try as he might he can’t stop the flow of his life force as it travels into Keith, healing him. He’s giving too much, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Keith is okay. As the Quintessence leaves his body, so does Shiro’s grasp on consciousness.

“Shiro, what the fuck?” Keith yells, hands on Shiro’s cheeks now.

With the last of his strength Shiro forces his eyes open, his heart thudding against his ribcage at the sight of Keith alive. It worked. Euphoria and exhaustion wage a war in Shiro as the last of his Quintessence floods into Keith’s body.

“Don’t you dare fucking die on me, Shiro.”

“Keith,” Shiro utters, seconds before he passes out.

The last thing he’s aware of before the world goes black is strong arms encircling him.

* * *

The room is bathed in soft light when Shiro next wakes up, the raging storm of the night before replaced by the gentle light of dawn as Shiro’s body recharged. It’s a stark contrast to the adrenaline that floods Shiro’s body as he rouses into full consciousness.

Shiro rolls onto his side, squinting at the glimmering sunlight as he remembers the night before—Keith’s surprising arrival, Keith being injured, and most of all Shiro using his powers to heal him. 

Struggling, Shiro manages to sit himself upright, embarrassed at the way he has difficulty catching his breath. It’s been a long time since he used his powers, long enough that he’d all but forgotten just how exhausted he gets when he goes too far. 

When he manages to look around his room, Keith is nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of his having been there is the blood staining Shiro’s sheets and the unfamiliar weakness permeating his limbs.

It’s not a surprise Keith’s gone. Shiro knows the only reason Keith shared his identity was because he thought he was dying. He’s probably miles away by now. Still, Shiro regrets nothing.

Shiro would save Keith a million times over, no matter what happens next.

With a groan Shiro grips the edge of his mattress, steeling himself for the change before standing upright. He sways but manages to stay upright, only staying in his room long enough to awkwardly kick off his soiled sweats and t-shirt. He’s too unsteady to risk putting anything on his legs and settles for remaining in his boxers and yanking on his favorite sweatshirt before slowly making his way down the hallway towards his kitchen. 

He pauses twice, hand braced on the wall for support before resuming. As much as the weakness frustrates him, he does his best to push that away, aware it’s not every day you almost die trying to transfer your own Quintessence into someone else. Or ever. Shiro’s only had the powers a few years and has never learned to control them. It’s not surprising, given the way all Galra and anyone with powers went underground when politics shifted and people let fear be their guiding light. 

Shiro’s always wondered what it might be like to actually use his powers—to do some good in the world. He’s just never been sure how to do that without ending up on a table like a lab rat with the government trying to eradicate him or find a way to use his abilities for their own twisted agenda. He’s pacified those thoughts by helping in other ways—secretly subverting the governing agenda, funneling his wealth into as many charities and legal aids as he can without drawing attention to himself and most especially, playing the mysterious reclusive bachelor so no one ever suspects.

Meeting Keith was dangerous—encouraging any relationship at all even more so—but Shiro had been unable to ignore the pull to Keith. In the end saving Keith had meant more to Shiro than protecting his secret. Even if Shiro knows what this means. He’s not safe here any longer—not in his apartment, or Altea. 

By the time Shiro’s got the tea kettle on the stove and his favorite tin of loose leaf oolong on the counter, he’s already got a text out to his realtor about possibly selling. 

“You know you should probably get better security. Anyone could come in.”

Shiro drops his tea infuser into his teacup, ignoring the hot water that splashes on his hand. “I know how to keep out anyone I don’t want.”

Keith nods, crossing the room and depositing a bag of what smells very much like freshly baked bagels in front of Shiro. “I wasn’t sure, but my gut said you might need carbs.”

“I like carbs,” Shiro says, suddenly terrified of scaring him away again. “Thank you.”

Keith makes a funny noise in the back of his throat, hopping up onto Shiro’s kitchen island and swinging his legs. He looks better than last night—amazing even—and it occurs to Shiro that this is the first time he’s seen Keith out of his Blade suit. He’s dressed in a pair of faded black jeans with a threadbare black thermal and a beanie pulled down over his hair. Keith looks younger like this.

The thudding of Shiro’s heart increases. Keith’s Blade suit was a veil of distance between them, proof that Shiro could never want more. With it gone, Shiro _wants_. He’s tried so hard to pretend he didn’t have feelings for Keith beyond wanting to help him, but with the suit gone and Shiro’s defenses down, there’s nothing to buffer the feelings rising in Shiro.

“So, you have powers,” Keith says.

Shiro nods, leaning his weight against the kitchen island as he bobs the tea infuser in his cup. “Yeah.”

“But you’re not Galra,” he says, no longer swinging his legs. He’s staring at Shiro with an intensity that makes Shiro’s head spin. 

“No,” Shiro agrees, flexing his metal fingers. “Archeologists have trouble with leaving artifacts alone and sometimes, well—we learn things the hard way.”

“So you—Shiro, you don’t look very good.”

“Thanks,” Shiro huffs, trying to laugh it off. It figures that the first time he really gets to see Keith without the suit or threat of death, Keith looks like something out of a dream and Shiro looks like a nightmare.

“You know what I mean. You—shit,” Keith exclaims, sliding off the counter just in time to stop Shiro from crumbling to the floor. “Hey, eyes on me. No passing out.”

“M’not gonna pass out,” Shiro mumbles, but his words are overshadowed by the second wave of dizziness that hits him as he tilts his face up to find Keith’s face just inches from his own.

“You with me?” Keith asks, tightening his hold on Shiro.

It’s impossible for Shiro to tell if the frantic racing of his heart is from moving too fast or from Keith touching him. “Yes.”

“Good. Come on, let's sit you down.”

Shiro gives Keith a small nod of his head, not trusting himself to speak. He knew Keith was strong but having him all but carry Shiro to the couch does something funny to Shiro’s brain. 

“You know, all this time I thought the most valuable things in your apartment were the antiquities, but I was wrong,” Keith says, lowering Shiro on to the couch.

Shiro has no idea how to respond to that, but Keith speaks again, saving Shiro from saying something embarrassing in response.

“I never did properly thank you for saving me,” Keith says as he sits besides Shiro.

“You don’t need to. I only did what anyone would have.”

“No, Shiro. You didn’t. You...you’re extraordinary. Most people would have let me die. Hell, most people would’ve _killed_ me just for what I am. You...you saved me. I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Shiro says, not finding it any easier to think sitting down. Not with Keith’s leg pressed up against his own. “I don’t expect anything in return. I never have.”

“No, you haven’t. Not even when you became the sole benefactor for the Blade resistance.”

Shiro’s heart leaps into his throat. “How long have you known that was me?”

“Since you admitted it right now,” Keith grins, the look of smugness on his face is unfairly attractive. “I suspected a few times, but I could never be sure. All this time you’ve been helping me, helping all of us. You’ve shown where your loyalties lie a million times over.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Shiro whispers.

“Not many people care about that anymore.”

“I do.”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. “You do.”

Shiro opens his mouth to say something else but all that comes out is a soft groan as he falls back against the back of the couch.

“Fuck, Shiro. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shiro says, eyes squeezed shut. “Just weak. It’ll pass...eventually.”

“I’ll stay until you’re better,” Keith says, voice firm with conviction. “I’ll protect you.”

As much as Shiro wants to accept, he feels guilty keeping Keith from his life.

“You must have a home to get back to, or friends.”

Keith averts his gaze, poking at a hole in his jeans. “No.”

“Keith...where do you live?” Shiro asks.

“Wherever I find a safe place. I grew up in the system and, well, you know not many people were keen to adopt a half-Galra orphan with powers. I’ve been alone for a long time. The Blades found me when I was sixteen. We help each other but...it’s not safe to know anyone else’s identity so,” he trails off with a shrug.

Maybe it’s Keith’s proximity, or the fact that the world still feels like it’s spinning, but Shiro can’t stop himself from what he says next.

“I have a big apartment.” Keith stills as he turns his gaze on Shiro who finished before he loses his courage. “It’s too big for one person. More than enough room for someone else to stay, if they wanted.”

“Shiro, are you asking me to move in with you?” Keith asks.

“I mean...yes? Only if you want. I have more money and space than I know what to do with, and I don’t expect anything from you in return just because I like you. You’re free to come and go as you wish and—”

“Shiro, you’re rambling,” Keith whispers, reaching out to touch Shiro’s leg. There’s something that looks like a smile on Keith’s face, but Shiro’s too flustered and out of it to know if it means what he thinks it means.

“You really want me to stay?” he asks.

Shiro nods. “As long as you want. We could...we could protect each other.”

For a brief moment Shiro worries he’s been too bold, but there’s no mistaking the look on Keith’s face as he reaches for Shiro’s hand, giving his fingers a squeeze before darting forward to kiss him. It’s the quickest kiss of Shiro’s life, and also the best.

“Is that a yes?” Shiro murmurs, reaching up with his free hand to touch his lips. He’s not entirely sure he’s not dreaming.

“Yeah, Shiro, it’s a yes.”

Shiro smiles, his exhaustion fading away in Keith’s presence. He’s been alone for so long, they both have, but maybe they don’t need to fight alone anymore.

“You know I think we’d make a good team.”

“A team,” Keith echoes.

“Yeah, I mean if that was something you might be inter—”

Keith doesn’t let him finish, practically climbing into his lap to kiss him again. Shiro gives as good as he gets, his hands sliding up to cradle Keith’s back as he deepens the kiss.

Something tells Shiro his future is now going to hold a lot more uncertainty and danger, but with Keith at his side he’s not afraid.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream about Shieth with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


End file.
